Let Me Be Your Wings
by roumiwrites
Summary: Everyone in here was broken, in one way or another, but patient 901 was part of the minority who had lost everything. Crippled!Wingless!Dean. Bucket loads of H/C.
1. Peel the scars

_I wrote this short wingfic after seeing a fanart on tumblr, where Castiel was represented holding Dean from behind with his wings spread out, and the title was "let me be your wings", which I found extremely cute and decided to make my best friend cry by writing her this. Enjoy the feels!_

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"It's kind of cruel… isn't it?"

Castiel's feathers bristled when patient 901's voice resounded in the empty and impersonal room for the first time. He carefully turned around, tucking his pen back in his breast pocket, a look of concern on his face that many people mistook for confusion, probably because he was always frowning.

Patient 901's voice was low and hoarse, and he sounded… broken, his last word said in barely a whisper.

It shouldn't have surprised Castiel the way it did. It shouldn't, after a year of studying the tight set of the patient's shoulders, or the rigid line of his neck as he was avoiding looking at Castiel and instead going to sit on the windowsill, letting his stare get lost somewhere across the treetops of the forest surrounding the facility, and just waiting for his nurse to leave.

Like he was doing right now.

After all, this facility was specialized in treating patients suffering from all types of mutilations, and there were many in this particular part of the building — the one destined to welcome and treat those who had lost the entirety of one or both their feathery appendages.

Everyone in here was broken, in one way or another, but patient 901 was part of the minority who had lost _everything_.

This patient — _Dean_, Castiel thought, even though he wasn't allowed to think of him in such an intimate manner; sympathy was for the healers, who treated the patients' sorrowful minds and the physical trainers, who helped them restore their balance and put them on various kinds of diets. It wasn't his place, as a nurse who only came by once a day to check on the patients' vital signs and if they were eating and going to the restroom and not trying to strangle themselves with any piece of thread they could find. Castiel's job was to change sheets, check on the patients and then leave, and all of that in silence as to not disturb them.

But this patient, 901, had no family left, only a sibling who he had been stubbornly refusing to allow him to visit his big brother at the facility. It broke Castiel's heart to think 901 hadn't seen anyone outside of the facility, not a single familiar and friendly face for over a _year_ now. He didn't know how he did it, where he found any kind of comfort if not in his close family or friends (because the latters' requests to visit him were systematically rejected as well). And because of that, after a week of attending him, Castiel had tried to start some kind of conversation with this patient. But as if sensing the pity coming off his nurse in waves, 901 had remained close-lipped and unfriendly, only grunting once at Castiel's use of his name, as if to remind him his place.

And since his attempts had all been silently but surely rebuked, Castiel had given up trying to cheer his patient, instead deciding to just do the job he was paid for, and leave as fast as he could to not indispose the crippled man any longer.

It was weird to look at someone else's back and not see wings. In fact, his first day at the facility Castiel hadn't been able to stop himself from staring like an idiot. It was like the empty space between his patient's shoulders was a very physical thing — a void he could reach out and _touch_ with the tip of his fingers. There was no way there could be _nothing_.

It had taken some getting used to, but at the end of his first day Castiel had lost his sense of discomfort while visiting the patients in the two aisles he had been assigned to take care of. After a quick and efficient check every morning after arriving, he would go to his office and do paperwork, and it was then the healers and the trainers' turn to pay them their ritual visits of the day. After what, the patients were left alone. It they wanted, there was a common room at the ground floor where activities were organized everyday for the patients' entertainment, to help them socialize again, and the garden outside was also open from morning to well after nightfall.

But as it was to be expected, none of Castiel's patients were very fond of 'mingling' with others, who they often felt suffered less than they did. Castiel had been assigned the worst wounded ones, be it physically or mentally or as it often was the case, both, and it was hard to watch them withdraw in themselves until they became as quiet and lifeless as patient 901.

It was how things happened usually when one lost a wing, let alone two. Castiel had been told by the healers how they would feel less than a human, ugly and useless to society, wanting nothing else but to retreat and spend the rest of their lives as little of a burden as they could. Of course, some found the courage to start living again, and others didn't mind 'burdening' Castiel with complaints over the way he was doing their beds or changing their IV, or even the quality of the food or the weather outside or the way they felt that day, all of which Castiel was hardly responsible for.

So after a year of coming every morning to the facility and being thoroughly ignored by the one patient he wanted to help the most, Castiel couldn't help the way his heartbeat was suddenly racing inside his chest, or the way his wings were rustling nervously where they were folded behind his back and over his pale blue coat, which was the uniform for the working staff.

Eyes still locked on something on the other side of the window, patient 901's shoulder blades shifted under his thin grey shirt, as if he was trying to move his phantom wings. Castiel's heart ached at the sight, and he left the board with the patient's vitals on the bed, not daring coming any closer though, for fear of scaring the other man. But he had talked, and if he didn't dare come closer, Castiel still found the courage to reply: "What is?"

He watched the shoulders shrug, before slumping on both sides of the patient's back, his hands resting in his lap.

Patient 901 was sitting sideways with a leg stretched the whole length of the windowsill and his back entirely turned towards Castiel, so he couldn't see what emotion was on his face right now. Maybe it was easier for him to speak like this, so Castiel didn't ask him to stand up and turn around. Neither did he try to catch his reflection in the window, sensing the other man wouldn't appreciate being spied on like that. Instead, he decided to sit down on the bed and wait.

"You are," the patient said, and it was so soft Castiel almost didn't catch it. "Everyday you come here, flaunting your beautiful wings right at my face… And I can barely stand it. I…"

Castiel was sure his heart stopped beating so he could better hear the other man's voice. His words felt like the stab of a knife to his chest.

Dean was miserable because of him? Because he had to watch Castiel making use of his wings without a trouble, every day? And it had only been reminding him more of what he had lost. Castiel wanted to apologize, not really sure what for exactly, but that's when another thought occurred to him.

Dean found Castiel's wings…

"Beautiful?" he heard himself ask out loud, and almost jumped at the sound of his own voice.

He heard the other man sigh.

"Yes. They are. And to a cripple like me, to be stuck watching those big black wings everyday, it's just… it's the worst kind of torture for me. I could manage the healers, you know, but you?"

And suddenly, Dean shifted and Castiel found himself looking into the saddest, most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Their color he couldn't make out easily with the light of the day right beside Dean's silhouette, but they were shining with so much emotion, and they seemed to suck him right in. He noticed the whites were bloodshot, though, and it made his own a bit teary too. But he didn't do anything to wipe the wetness gathering there, and just kept staring at the other man.

"My healer has these small grayish things," Dean let out a humorless chuckle, "I would have outmatched them anytime I wanted to before… well, before. I couldn't envy them even now that I've lost mine. It was kind of a relief, really. I thought that maybe I could bear showing like _this_ in public, some day… But then you came."

It felt like a reproach, but Castiel didn't mind. He understood, and understanding made his heart clench in his chest and his fists clench in the sheets, fighting off the sudden urge to stand up and wrap Dean in his arms while he was engulfing them both in his wings. He wanted to pour so much affection and warmth into this man, it made him crazy for a split second.

"I know, I know it sounds stupid, but seeing you everyday, watching you use your wings as if it was the simplest thing in the world… it just makes me _so angry_."

As Castiel felt the wetness pooling at the corner of his eyes start to roll down his face, he felt more helpless than ever in his life. Dean didn't have any use of I'm sorrys, and Castiel already knew how he would react to pity. And comfort… well, Castiel would have to ask. Because he wanted to help, he really did.

"Dea… um, 901," he quickly corrected himself, calling him the way Dean's healer had advised him to do, "what can I do for you?"

"Please, call me Dean. I'm sorry if I was an asshole to you for that, I was kinda in a very dark place when you first came here and I just… yeah, sorry."

"Dean, it's okay."

"No, it's not. You were only trying to be nice to me, and I treated you like trash. But truth is, I'm the only piece of trash here, I should have been nicer to you. You're whole, and beautiful, you have a future and countless possibilities are still smiling down at you… and everytime you… I have this glimpse at what my life could… _should_ be…"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then Dean stood up and turned to face the window again, shutting Castiel out so suddenly it made him dizzy, like being slapped in the face in the middle of a conversation.

Dean considered himself as no better than trash. That thought made Castiel instantly furious. Dean was a striking man, with or without his wings, he was almost painfully handsome. And judging by what he'd just told Castiel, he wasn't as much of an asshole as he seemed to think.

Castiel brought a hand to his face and quickly wiped the wetness on his cheeks before looking up at Dean's back again.

Dean had crossed his arms on his chest now, and when he spoke again, his voice was shaking, like he was holding in a sob.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry for this… forget I… I didn't mean to tell you this. Sorry."

He chuckled again, just a shaky huff as he was straightening his back to probably make himself look tougher than he was and that was it, Castiel couldn't take standing there watching this beautiful man hurt himself like that anymore; watch him hurt and cover how broken he was deep inside.

Dean needed to let it all go and if he had to, Castiel would punch it out of him for his sake.

Castiel found the courage to stand up, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him lightheaded as he walked those few steps that separated them before wrapping his arms around the other man's waist and pushing his body flush with Dean's back, making him almost painfully aware of his presence.

A strangled sound escaped the taller man's lips and his first reaction was a full body shiver before his head fell back and rested there against Castiel's forehead. Castiel was moved by the utter trust Dean showed him.

Inhaling Dean's both tantalizing and soothing scent in the dip of his neck, Castiel let his hot breath ghost against the other man's nape, his arms tightening around him when he felt Dean shiver again.

"What," he croaked after a good minute had passed, "… what are you doing?"

Castiel took a moment to think before saying: "I'm holding you."

"I can feel that," Dean whispered back.

And then he didn't say anything else.

Castiel had purposefully avoided wrapping Dean inside the cocoon of his wings, knowing it maybe wouldn't please the other man to be reminded of what he had lost. That was what had hurt him the most in Castiel, after all.

Instead, another idea came to his mind, and he was now confident enough to try it out. He wanted to help Dean heal more than anything, and if the healers were doing such a poor job of it, Castiel was going to have to do it himself.

If Dean allowed him to.

"Dean," he murmured in the other man's ear, and he felt Dean lean into him even more, his jaw and mouth going slack, and seeing it did things to Castiel he had a hard time pushing away_. _But now wasn't the time for misplaced lust. This was for Dean and only for him. "I want you to close your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

Dean nodded, and Castiel waited until his breathing evened out. To help him further calm down, Castiel splayed his hands open where they were standing against Dean's stomach, slowly rubbing his palms there in circles without ever stopping hugging and holding him.

The sigh that escaped Dean's lips wasn't the same pained one he had made earlier. It was a low and throaty sigh of contentment, if not bliss yet, and Castiel felt pure elation bubbling in his belly at the thought that he had pleased this tortured soul he had come to care for so much.

This could work. He very much hoped it would.

"Now, I want you to picture us outside of this building."

"Easy one," Dean replied quietly. "I'm always picturing that."

"And where do you see yourself, Dean?" Castiel smiled at the way Dean reacted to the use of his name, body nestling a bit closer again, almost impossibly closer now. "Where do you go when you want to leave the pain behind?"

"I go… outside."

Dean's voice sounded far away now, as if he was getting lost in his memories. Castiel hummed and kept on rubbing the other man's belly. He liked that Dean had a slightly round tummy. He was always happy everytime he came to take Dean's tray to see that he had eaten his entire meal and wasn't trying to starve himself to death. It helped that the food at the facility was an amazing quality. The patients had to find some joy somewhere, after all.

"Where do you go? Dean?"

"I'm in the garden… I reach the gates and I climb them before jumping on the other side. And then I can finally walk into the forest."

"You dream of being into the wild, on your own, is that right?"

"Yes. I just wanna… I just wanna leave everything behind and go somewhere I can think... escape all that noise for a while."

Dean turned his head slightly, eyes still closed, but Castiel could see that he was smiling. It made him smile too, and he buried his face in the other man's neck again, Dean's short bronze hair tickling his nose.

"Alright, Dean. I want you to picture yourself walking down a path, a path surrounded by trees in the middle of the forest, until you reach a clearing."

"Oh, I can see it," Dean said, his voice filled with wonder.

"This is good, Dean, you're doing so well. Now, when you reach it, I want you to look around, and let the nature soothe you, soothe your soul. Let the smell of the trees and the leaves and the earth fill your lungs, and let your worries and all this anger behind. Just stand in the middle, Dean, and let it all go. Let the wind…" Castiel took a deep breath, and then spoke again, "I want you to feel the wind ruffling your wings. It's a warm breeze, and it's waving in and out of your feathers. Can you feel it?"

The silence in the room felt oppressing, and Castiel held his breath, waiting for Dean's reaction.

The taller man shifted a bit in his arms, and Castiel felt his shoulder blades rolling against his chest. A weak smile tugged at his lips as he tried to keep his tears at bay. Dean was _feeling_ it. He was shifting his wings in the warm breeze in his imagination, and _feeling _it.

"It feels…," Dean whispered, and Castiel closed his eyes for a second, suddenly too overwhelmed to bear it. "I had forgotten… So nice…"

Dean's voice cracked at the end, and Castiel decided it was time to bring him back. And finally try the riskiest part of his plan.

Castiel unfolded his wings, careful to not make a sound, and slowly spread first the right, then the left before orienting them so they could jut out on each side of Dean's body, looking as if they belonged to him instead of Castiel.

"Open your eyes," Castiel said, "and remember that you are whole, Dean. You've always been, and you are the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Bracing himself for the worst, Castiel closed his eyes at the same time Dean's eyelids fluttered open.

Castiel's hands were unmoving against Dean's belly, keeping him steady, and he felt the other man go unnaturally still in his arms.

"_This…_"

He was still whispering, but to Castiel it sounded like he was shouting.

Castiel expected to be shoved mercilessly away, to be called a heartless asshole and told to leave before Dean broke his arms or threw a plate at his face.

He didn't expect the lightest caress on his coverts — the smallest feathers covering his wingbone, that were also the most sensitive ones.

"It's crazy."

"What is?" Castiel asked for the second time that day, keeping his eyes still closed, his heart beating fast even as he felt relief wash over him. Dean hadn't thrown a fit. He wasn't screaming. It was okay.

"I can _almost_ feel it," Dean said, and Castiel felt him raise his head from where it was still lying against Castiel's forehead, and Castiel guessed he was trying to get a better look.

Cracking an eye open, and then the other, Castiel studied Dean's face while he was moving his right wing closer to him.

The change was so striking Castiel almost didn't believe this was the same person he'd been holding all that while. Dean had a small, almost shy half-smile, and there was a full-blown one shining in his eyes. As he stood with his profile to Castiel, he was now easily able to tell the color of the other man's eyes.

A deep, but bright green dusted with golden freckles, like the crown of a young tree basking in the sunlight of the first day of spring. It was mesmerizing, and the calm that had finally settled over Dean's usually brooding aura was reflected in his eyes, making him so alive and vibrant and _there_, Castiel couldn't help leaning forward and placing a soft and chaste kiss on his jaw.

Dean acknowledged him with a chuckle before reaching to trail his fingers in the opposite direction the small fluffy feathers flew, making Castiel's wing tremble under his touch.

"How are you feeling, Dean?"

He had to ask. Castiel had maybe found a way to settle all that anger and resentment Dean had felt towards every winged human being, but the envy, he wasn't so sure. Maybe Dean would never feel whole again. Or like he was worth something even without his wings. But if he could help him find some kind of peace, Castiel was there and willing to help him when the other man couldn't take it on his own.

Dean nodded once, fingers still buried in Castiel's feathers, soaking their warmth and letting it spread to his upper arm.

"I'm… I'm good. A bit shaken, and a lot surprised, but I'm good. You still haven't told me your name."

The change of subject threw Castiel off for a second, before he quickly gathered his thoughts back and felt his face heathen.

"Oh, sorry, it just didn't cross my mind. My name's Castiel."

"Well, Castiel… _t__hank you._"

There it was — the shaking in his voice, as if he was fighting off a sob again, but Castiel found that he didn't mind now. He knew Dean wasn't completely healed, and that it would take time.

But this now was a good start, and he was hopeful for the future.

_Next step_, he decided,_ I'm taking you for a walk in the garden._

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_update: tbc because apparently bae liked it so much she's asking for more_


	2. From off my back

_As promised, here's the continuation ;)_

___FYI rating's going up FIRST because this story is not only getting angstier but there's also blood now, and graphic description of scars/trauma and even a minor character's death, because I had to come back to the day of Dean's accident so you'd all know what he's been through to be suffering so much. And SECOND it's also going up because best friend wanted smut, and her desires are my orders (concerning this fic). Sorry if it's not your cuppa!_

___There won't be anything beyond the chastest of kiss in this chapter, though, but only because much as I tried, this story just _wouldn't let me___ write them having hot man sex so soon. So I've decided it'd be best to take it slowly._

___PS: Feedback always very much appreciated! :)_

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Surprisingly enough, or maybe not so much, getting Dean out of his room didn't prove to be as difficult as expected.

It was dragging him_ back inside_ that turned out to be somewhat troublesome. And that's how Castiel got to see a side of Dean he had never seen before. And that petulant version of him, who kept asking him for just two more seconds, then ran away as soon as Castiel had his back turned? Well, he found it very endearing, even though he had to chase after Dean until he could finally corner him in one alley of the garden, breathless and sweating profusely in his large coat and the two layers of clothing underneath. But Dean's genuine laughter at making his nurse run after him was worth it. His happiness was giving Castiel a sense of purpose he had been earning for for a very long time.

The other feat was convincing Dean that his scars were neither_ 'disgusting'_ nor _'ugly'_. Castiel's desire to see them was growing every day, if only to show Dean that there was nothing repulsing about them, and that showing them to Castiel wasn't going to send him running for the hills and never wanting to come anywhere near him ever again. But Dean, being the _awfully _stubborn man that he was would always clutch at the hem of his shirt and glare at Castiel every single time the subject was brought up, and if he started pushing he only got told to leave him _'the fuck'_ alone.

Castiel didn't like being chased away from Dean's room, so he resolved to only asking once in a while, without too much insistence even though he still kind of obsessed over Dean's scars. It was Dean's most vulnerable part, and Castiel craved to have Dean showing them to him _willingly_. He knew they were tended by Dean's personal healer, Dr. Shurley (or as he told everyone to call him, _Chuck_), and trainer Lafitte was also allowed to inquire about the way they were healing in case it was inconveniencing Dean too much. But whenever Castiel did nothing more than _breach _the subject of his scars, he instantly got himself a handful of a very hostile and scared Dean telling him to _'shut the fuck up'._

It hurt; that space Dean was keeping between them was hurting Castiel in ways he couldn't explain, but he valued every little crumb Dean was tossing him too much to risk what they had, and over something that was clearly causing Dean too much distress.

Beside that matter, and also their endless arguments everytime Dean refused to go to the common room and meet other patients, things between them were going smoothly enough. It was safe to say that they had become friends over the past month, even though Castiel often dreamed of holding his friend down and thoroughly cherishing him until the man had no more doubts of how much Castiel loved every single part of him — crippled, or not.

The best part about this new found closeness was discovering Dean was quite the cuddle whore, and so everytime Castiel wanted to hold him all he had to do was ask to have Dean come to him without a second of hesitation, sinking against his smaller frame with a happy sigh. Dean _always_ wanted to be hold and squeezed and petted, a reminder that he was still cared for. Well, that's at least what Castiel read into it.

Maybe Dean was just the touchy-feely type of guy, and that was all.

But Castiel wasn't allowed to directly touch that place where his wings had been cut off from his body. Castiel had been worried maybe Dean was still experiencing pain from his scars, but after asking Chuck, it turned out Dean's scars had completely healed months ago and nothing should have been causing him too much pain. Which only meant Dean didn't like Castiel or anyone else touching him there, period. There was no residual pain, it wasn't physical because everything was only inside Dean's head. Times like these, Castiel wanted to ignore Dean's refusal and prove him once and for all that nothing was wrong with him or his mutilated back.

But of course, he never did anything that would upset Dean.

Castiel's days now consisted of coming in the morning and doing his usual check-up of the patients before coming back to accompany Dean for his morning walk in the garden. Then after the walk that always put Dean through the fiercest mood swings whenever other patients would look too closely at the crippled man — well, the _more _crippled one —, Castiel would sit with him on their favorite bench at the farthest side of the garden, right behind a big lilac bush that almost hid all of the stony facade of the hospital once they were comfortably seated. From where they were the fence that boarded the perimeter of the garden was barely visible, poking from between the trees, and Castiel often caught Dean staring at it, when he wasn't fascinated in the sky.

Centuries ago, they said humans were able to fly, mostly to hunt their prays and to accomplish the ritual coupling that usually took place two hundred feet above the ground. Now few were those who had the ability to merely take off — let alone stand in the air for more than a couple of minutes. It was only for the best athletes, the ones who went to the Olympics and won gold medals and beat records. The one with the biggest, strongest wings like Castiel's.

But something in the way Dean would gaze at the sky with that nostalgic look on his face... It made Castiel wonder if, maybe, Dean had been one of those rare and gifted individuals. If he had been once on the top of the world, and if that was why it was so hard for him to suddenly find himself stuck to the ground for the rest of his life. Castiel knew his wings reminded Dean if his own, so maybe they had been approximately the same length? Castiel hadn't really experienced flying, always trying to forget about his wings instead of using them, but maybe Dean had liked it. Maybe flying had been a huge part of his life before his accident?

Times like these Castiel would sense Dean's desire to be alone, and he would leave him with a friendly pat on his knee and a softly spoken reminder that he was always there if Dean needed him. Then Castiel would go back to his office and spend the rest of the day filling forms and signing medical prescriptions for patients who needed to switch medication, but his mind would always be filled with Dean. His colors, his scent, his smile, his pain and his joy. It all always came back to Dean, and it's needless to say that Castiel was falling behind in his paperwork ever since that day he got to hold Dean in his arms for the first time and the daydreams had started.

They hadn't really done that again, the part where Dean was touching Castiel's wings, or Castiel's improvised hypnosis session. Dean had told him he was feeling much better, and Castiel had believed he was sincere.

It was the first time one of his patients needed him — the nurse, who was supposed to just clean rooms and change syringes and leave — and only _him_. Nobody else could have done this for Dean, nobody had been able to. Castiel hated to brag, but this once, he was going to indulge himself. Even Chuck had come to congratulate him after a session with Dean where he'd told him all the progress they had done in simply an hour while Chuck had already been thinking of Dean as a hopeless case. Dean seemed to enjoy his presence as much as he did and for Castiel, that was a big, fat first. Usually people tended to like him for a thousand of other reasons, and his personality was never one of them.

Castiel was mostly noticed for his wings, even though nobody had never used the word '_beautiful' _to describe them. _'Sexy'_ he had gotten plenty, that and _'big', 'fat', 'hot', _basically every single sexually related term had been applied to them, and Castiel had always had the same answer to this kind of approach: thank you, but... _no, thank you_. People made the wrong assumption that his wingspan was directly connected to the size of other things down his pants, and many of them also got the impression Castiel was some kind of natural leader, while in fact Castiel was more of the quiet, _always there to listen to you_ type. When he was a kid and had his first growth spurt, the way his comrades and even his teachers started looking at him had given him more than once the crazy idea to just _rip those things off of him_ and toss them far away because he could never live up to the image that his wings gave other people of him, and he always ended up being a disappointment to them.

_'If I knew you were such an ice queen in bed...'_, his last (ex)boyfriend had sent him through a text _after_ breaking up with him over the phone.

That one had stung the most, because at that time Castiel had thought he'd finally found someone who wanted to get to know him, the _him_ on the other end of the impressive wings, and getting the confirmation once again that it'd never be the case and people would never want him for who he was had played a big part in his decision later that night to quit the college of medicine he had been going to on his mother's advice and enter a nursing school, the same one his mother had graduated from too, and find himself a job as quickly as possible. A job where he wouldn't be expected to make important decisions and order people around, but where his help would be valued. His mother had spent her whole life telling him stories of how awfully nurses were treated by their superiors, so Castiel had been adamant about this part: he wasn't going to work in a hospital. He'd join the restricted sphere that took care of society's outcasts.

Because wingless people were considered as the lowest beings on Earth. In literature they were always the villains, and on the TV they were the subject of mockery and pity. They maybe weren't that many, but it was not due to lack of accidents or genetic malformations in the womb. The fact was that most of them found death a more preferable choice than living with no wings in this society.

Becoming a nurse hadn't been for his mother, who had been looking for respect for the hard work she'd done and all the sacrifices she had made, but found none.

But Castiel had always known deep down that that was what_ he_ was meant to do, and not even his mother's warnings and pleading could have stopped him. He wanted to save people and take care of the most damaged ones in the only way he was the most capable at: quietly, by doing little things like changing IVs and bedsheets and reminding the patients that today was too beautiful of a day to keep the curtains closed and miss nature's wonders.

And then he'd met Dean, and the world had never been the same again.

Because of him Castiel had, although unconsciously, always made sure to show off his shiny wings, and it was only after Dean had agreed to open up and have long talks with him about what had really bothered him in Castiel that he'd realized how much he'd been _actually flaunting them_ _in Dean's face alright_. He hadn't meant to, and after spending pretty much his whole life trying to hide them, Castiel had had a hard time believing Dean wasn't exaggerating everything, too biased by what he'd personally been through.

But then he knew Dean enough to sense when he was being playful and when he was serious, and the pain behind his gorgeous eyes had made Castiel reconsider his behavior over the past year. Maybe he hadn't noticed, but he could have done it nonetheless. He could have been so interested in catching the taciturn patient's attention that maybe his wings had decided to take matters in their own hands — or so to speak. Castiel knew he _had_ indeed tried everything he could to get Dean to speak to him, or simply acknowledge his presence, and he couldn't ignore how important it had always been to him. How important _Dean_ had always been to him.

It felt weird, knowing that he'd been making inappropriate advances for over a _year_ without having a _clue _about what these two traitors were doing behind his back (literally), but it was also a relief knowing that Dean had been too busy taking it as a personal reminder of what he had become to notice Castiel was constantly making his wings flare and flex and gleam in the light not to hurt him but to _entice_ the other man.

Castiel had assured him he hadn't been trying to make him feel inferior or assuage some fucked up idea of power over the taller man just because he didn't have wings, so now Dean believed Castiel had merely being doing all of this because that was how he _normally _acted. And Castiel had been quick to agree because... what else could he tell him? That he'd been pining for Dean since day one without even knowing he was?

White lies never hurt anybody... right?

As much as Castiel would have loved confessing to Dean right then and there, he couldn't for a handful of reasons, the first being that Dean was still his patient, and relationships with patients were absolutely prohibited. If they were caught Castiel could (and would) lose his job, no matter if both parts had been willing. They would believe Castiel had taken advantage of a physically and mentally fragile man and nobody would ever want to hire him in the medical field.

There was also the question of knowing if Dean felt the same way too. It was difficult to say, especially after only a month of careful tip-toeing around the man, trying not to be too probing while asking him how he felt, and trying not to scare him off with his obsession for Dean's scars.

Castiel had been staring at his screen for who knows how long when he suddenly came back to with a start and took a look at his digital clock. It was past nine, and he had to go get Dean back to his room or the man would spend the night outside.

Castiel rose from his chair with a sigh and grabbed his trenchcoat.

It was already dark outside, and it was starting to get uncomfortably cold. When he exhaled, Castiel watched his breath come out as a white puffy cloud that only lasted for a split second before dissolving into the night. Castiel kept bugging Dean about taking at least a jacket whenever he went outside, but when was Dean listening to him, anyway? The answer was almost never. It was always the other way around with them. Dean would talk and Castiel would listen, and whenever Castiel tried to make anything pass through that thick skull of his, Dean would only shrug and let it slide over him as if it was nothing. _'You are beautiful', 'you count', 'you aren't broken, Dean', 'take a goddamn jacket with you, the weather is getting cold'_, he never listened.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Castiel descended the steps and walked into the garden. He took the first alley on the right, the sound of his steps muffled by the small hays boarding either side of the path. At the end of the alley he took the first turn on the right and followed it until the lilac bush came into sight. In the dark the silent garden felt almost like an abandoned place, the trees tall and ominous, the gravel under his feet the only source of noise in the night.

"Dean?" Castiel called when he reached the lilac bush, the corollas of its purple flowers wide open and filling the air with a sweet and potent fragrance.

Castiel's eyes fell to the bench, and his heartbeat quickened when he saw the huddled up man in his thin gray shirt and pants. Castiel practically ran to his side before touching Dean's face. It was cold, cold as death, and his lips had turned blue. He also appeared to be asleep.

Keeping his fear in check, for now was not the time to panic because it won't help Dean at all, Castiel slid a hand under the other man's knees and another one around his back before lifting him up from the bench.

Castiel staggered under the weight, and for one terrifying second he thought he was going to fall and that would mean being unable to stand up again with Dean's lifeless body on top of him, but luckily he was able to restore his balance.

Huffing like a horse, Castiel made his way back to the facility, cursing under his breath and promising Dean a hundred tortures if he dared dying in his arms.

* * *

"What are you _doing_?"

Castiel almost jumped when Dean's eyes snapped open and he hissed through gritted teeth.

They were in Dean's bathroom and Dean was lying naked in the bathtub where Castiel had carefully put him in, scalding water up to his chin. Castiel was crouching in front of the tub, trenchcoat abandoned on the ground at his feet with the rest of Dean's clothes. He had rolled his sleeves to his elbows and his arms were dipped in the water as he had been stroking Dean's limbs, trying to stimulate his blood circulation and bring life back to his frozen extremities.

He knew it was the most intimate you could get with a person. He knew this could be seen as a violation of the worst kind. He had seen Dean naked, and he had been _touching_ him for over an hour, now. But Castiel's brain had barely registered all of that when he had brought Dean here. He hadn't had time to feel embarrassed, or to gawk at Dean's body.

"How could you... How could you do this to me?!"

Castiel's eyes opened wide when Dean yelled at him, and he stepped back, bringing his dripping arms to his sides. His wings were stretched wide, the tips of his feathers grazing the ceiling, but under Dean's burning gaze they slowly started to fold on themselves, a shiver of unease and fear running through them and spreading to the rest of his body.

Dean's face had turned red, and Castiel was sure it had nothing to do with the heath of the water.

"You were going to die, Dean! I had to take your clothes off before you froze to death! And I didn't look at _them_, I swear!"

"Why can't you just take _'no'_ for an answer?" Dean snapped at him, not listening to a word Castiel was saying.

It made Castiel feel like a rapist. He had just saved Dean from a certain death but now he felt like puking, his stomach roiling at the look of anger and betrayal on Dean's face. He looked so small and _so angry_, and when he caught Castiel staring his hand came to hover between his legs, covering himself up as best as he could.

Castiel's stomach leaped and seemed to lodge itself in his throat. He tore his eyes away from Dean's hand and saw the fear written all over Dean's features. He really thought Castiel would do this to him. That he would think of _molesting him_ while he was completely helpless. Maybe he thought that was what Castiel had been busy doing while he was unconscious.

Castiel had to leave, or he was damn well going to throw up on Dean's bathroom rug.

With a mumbled apology Castiel stood up and grabbed his trenchcoat, his vision a blur and his legs shaking under his weight. Then without a look back he left the room as fast as he could, his wings still folded painfully against his back as if trying to retract inside his body.

* * *

Castiel hadn't come back the next morning. Nor the one after that. And Dean knew it was all his fault but he still felt frustration at the guy holing up inside his office instead of coming to talk to him.

It's been four days now and the new nurse that's taken Castiel's place refused to speak to him, which annoyed the living crap out of him. When he had decided he couldn't take it anymore and asked her where Castiel's office was, he had been stunned to hear that Castiel was on sick leave, and that he wouldn't be back before a week or maybe two.

And that was the only time the girl spoke to him before glaring at him like he was nothing but a cockroach she wanted to smash under her shoe. She was maybe small but her bright red hair and the gleam in her eyes told him she wasn't someone he wanted to mess with, so he had kept his mouth shut and let her do her job.

After Castiel had left, Dean had tried to get out of the bathtub and when his legs had refused to move he had freaked out big time. He had had to rub them until he could feel his skin again, and after getting out of the water he had immediately gone to bed, not even caring about the way everything in the damn room was twisting and swaying, or the fact that he was going to soak his pajamas and the whole bed too.

It was only the next day that memories had come rushing back, and he had remembered falling asleep in the afternoon when the sun had been shining, only to wake up hours later too cold to move or care. He had thought about going back to his room but somewhere between two thoughts he'd fallen asleep again.

The next thing he knew, his throat was hurting like a bitch and he was lying in his bathtub, his body feeling like it was being pierced by a thousand needles at once.

He had been confused and let his anger cloud his mind. Castiel had undressed him, so he had to have seen the carnage that was his back. Dean had tried his best to spare him that vision of horror but the choice had been taken from him.

Dean knew what his scars looked like. He had looked into a mirror, he had turned around and looked at his back like a shallow twink would do and he had seen the large gashes where his wings used to be, running from his shoulder blades to a little above his lower back. They had been an angry reddish purple, the skin torn up where the metal had bit into flesh and feathers, and the stitches had still been visible.

Dean had ran to the toilet bowl after that and puked until his stomach was hurting and all he could taste was the bitterness of his bile in his mouth. He had been unable to reconcile that disgusting picture with himself — the himself he used to be.

He had never looked at them again, he hadn't had the courage to do it, and outside of his healer he had made sure to never expose anyone to them. Whenever he thought about his scars, which was pretty fucking _always, _they would start throbbing and he could feel his heartbeat there. It wasn't painful, they hadn't hurt for a long time now, but it still made them impossible to ignore, and that was when Dean's memories always came back to haunt him.

If only he hadn't been driving that night...

If only it hadn't been raining like a pissing cow...

If only he had seen that truck in time...

If only Jo had put her fucking seat belt...

There were so many _'if onlys' _and they were making Dean's life a living hell. His memories of that night were fuzzy and unclear, all he could remember were pieces, and sensations, and the sound of his own breathing, so loud in the dead silence that had followed the crash. It was only afterwards that he had learnt what had really happened that night.

After his car had been hit with full force by the truck, it had been sent flying out of the road and into a tree. Jo had died on the spot from the initial shock, and when the car hat hit the tree sideways he had been stuck inside the passenger compartment that had been reduced to a crumbled metal box with sharp angles digging into him from every direction. His wingbones had both been crushed under the hood where it had been bent by the collision with the tree, and he remembered the nauseating sensation of his blood trickling profusely down his back. He hadn't dared moving, his wings trapped and twisted at a painful angle. It had still hurt a lot less than he had expected, though. He had been told later by his surgeon that it was the shock and the adrenaline that had dulled the pain. Amazing thing, the human body.

Dean had been stuck inside the Impala for _two fucking hours_ and he remembered talking to Jo even though he could neither hear or see her, believing she was just unconscious, and he'd been babbling nonsense trying to wake her up while also keeping himself awake, without knowing his childhood friend was long gone.

No amount of healing was ever going to help him get over that. It was all his fault — for not reminding Jo to put her goddamn belt, for taking the wheel while he should have suggested they staid at his mother's for another night.

And the scars were a reminder carved forever in his flesh to make sure he would never forget. Losing his wings was his punishment. But Dean suffered enough from his handicap alone, he had no need of watching the ones he loved pitying him, or looking at his scars and calling him repulsive and gross.

He was barely holding on, and a blow like that would be the last straw before he gave up and decided to put an end to his miserable life. They wouldn't always be able to protect him here. If he really wanted to, he would find a way to kill himself.

Meeting Cas had been the single one good thing to happen to him since he had woken up after the crash. Well, after they had gotten over the initial misunderstanding between them. With Cas at his side, he felt like everything was possible. He had no rational explanation for that feeling. It was something he felt in his guts, and Dean always listened to his instincts.

Cas talked to him and looked at him and listened to him with this same raptness, like Dean was so fucking captivating. At first Dean had thought the guy was just faking it, waiting to get an opening or something, even after he'd done that amazing thing where he had hold Dean and hold him so fucking _tight_ — he hadn't been held or touched like that in so long Dean had practically forgotten what it felt like.

But Cas hadn't been faking it. He really seemed to care about Dean, and he even wanted to see his scars. Dean had not a fucking clue why, and everytime Cas was using those big puppy eyes on him it was getting harder and harder to refuse. But he wanted to keep Cas as long as he could, the guy was like a balm to his lonely soul, and with him he almost felt normal again.

His old self would have been hitting on a guy like Cas so hard he'd have knocked him off his feet, even though Dean had never been attracted to men before. It wasn't only the wings, even though they were really impressive. Each time Cas entered the room, his wings would flare up and expand like he was trying to encompass the whole place. He had been expressing ownership, and apparently, he hadn't been aware of doing so.

He didn't do that anymore, though, not since Dean told him how uncomfortable it made him feel to not be able to reach with his own and intertwine the tips of their feathers together. This kind of gesture was used to convey affection and trust between friends and even simple acquaintances. It was the smallest way of socializing and Dean had been unable to do even that. It sucked, it sucked so goddamn much he would have cried.

Instead Dean had kept his mouth shut and decided to ignore the guy. So fuck if he was gorgeous and everytime his wings brushed something close to him it made his heart beat faster than a virgin on her wedding night. It had helped that Cas had been exuding pity the few first times he tried to force Dean into acknowledging his presence.

All in all, Dean had done his best until he couldn't hold it in anymore. And he had no regrets, except the ones where he wished he had talked to Cas from the beginning instead of shutting him out because of a misplaced sense of pride.

But now he had fucked everything up. He had called Cas nothing less than a pervert, while the guy had only been trying to save his sorry ass.

With a sigh, Dean rubbed his eyes and stood from the windowsill. He hadn't been out ever since Cas had left, for he felt no desire to go there without his friend. He didn't want to replace the good memories of their time together that he had there with new ones where it was only him, sitting alone on that bench, thinking of Cas hating him.

Hell, he had hurt the guy badly, hadn't he? If he closed his eyes, he could still see the startled look on Cas' face, and how he'd been struggling to explain. Dean didn't even remember what Cas had spluttered. He had been too angry and ashamed to care.

It had been over two weeks now, and still no sign of Cas. It was starting to make Dean peevish. He was worried Cas would never be back, which would be a shame because Cas maybe didn't know it but his patients loved him, even the most irritable ones, and they were all making his replacement crazy, asking her over and over when their nurse would be back. Not only Dean needed him here — his other patients needed the nurse too, and if he wasn't coming back he'd make many people even more miserable than they already were. And Dean couldn't stand that. He couldn't listen to Cas' other patients asking for him every single day knowing he was the reason why he had left.

Turning away from the window that had become his only distraction again, Dean had only made a step towards the door when it opened and Cas' replacement entered the room. The ginger was holding a tray with Dean's supper, and she deliberately didn't look at him when she put it on his table.

"It's been over two weeks."

He watched the girl startle before cautiously turning to meet his gaze, chin held up defiantly. That chick was fierce, and even though she treated him like crap, Dean found he kind of liked her. _Weird_.

She cocked a red eyebrow at him, as if asking him to explain himself, and after a deep sigh that's what Dean did.

"You told me Cas would be back by now. But he isn't, and it's been sixteen days."

"He's still sick," the girl said with a shrug.

"Come _on_, I know he's not!"

The girl narrowed her eyes at him but didn't reply. It made Dean want to slam his fist on something and yell at her. Instead he breathed in and out until he had calmed down.

"And I know you know he's not," he said, before mentally slapping himself for that awful sentence. "Y-y-you know what I mean. So if you know where to find him, I want you to tell him something from me."

"And what is the magic word?" The girl asked, visibly irritated, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Please," Dean muttered through gritted teeth.

They stared at each other until the girl shrugged again and asked: "Okay, what do you wanna tell him?"

* * *

Castiel was going to faint. He had only walked inside the facility and he was already shaking like he was going to his own trial. And maybe he was, Dean had been vague enough in the message he had charged Charlie to give him.

_'Tell Cas to bring his ass back here tomorrow or I'm going to break out of this fucking place and hunt him down myself.' _Charlie had been giggling all along so it hadn't been easy to understand what she was saying but after he had made her repeat, he had taken Dean's threat very seriously. He had witnessed Dean when his mind was set on getting what he wanted — it had only been the last bowl of pudding that one and only time he'd managed to get Dean to eat in the cafeteria on the first floor with the rest of the patients, but _still_, watching Dean threaten the guy who'd overtaken him in the waiting line of cutting his other off and feeding it to him had been pretty disturbing, and not really what Castiel had meant by '_getting to know the residents'. _Dean could be really terrifying and Castiel didn't want to test his patience.

Castiel took the lift and pushed the button for the twelfth and last floor, nodding when he was greeted by his peers and a trainer he'd never seen before but who still smiled politely at him. It didn't help settle his nerves, but it felt good to be back where he belonged, surrounded by his coworkers. Staying at home and playing that scene in the bathroom in his head over and over again had only resulted in driving him half mad. Then he had spent hours explaining to his fat and inattentive cat how he hadn't _meant_ to see Dean naked, and that he _hadn't seen anything, really, _so why did he feels so bad, now?

The trip to Dean's room was spent fighting off the nausea rising in his stomach and rubbing his clammy palms on the sides of his pants. By the time he knocked on the door before letting himself in, he was a nervous wreck and he knew the moment he saw Dean he'd have to fight the urge to jump on his patient and hug him tight and apologize until he was forgiven and Dean was looking at him like he used to.

"Come in," came Dean's gruff voice right when Castiel was letting himself inside the room, closing the door behind himself.

It sounded muffled, and when Castiel looked around himself, trying to locate the source of the voice, he noticed the big lump on the bed. Dean was buried under the covers, and it was impossible to tell if he was facing him or the other way round.

Gulping loudly, Castiel came closer to the bed and even went as far as sitting on the edge. The mattress dipped under his weight and he heard Dean exhale somewhere inside his cocoon. Then there was frantic movement under the covers and a moment later Dean's face poked out.

"Hi," he simply said.

"Hi, Dean," came Castiel's tentative reply.

To his surprise, Dean extracted next his arm and took hold of Castiel's hand in his own, squeezing it lightly at Castiel's questioning look. Dean's eyes were soft, and his hair a mess, and Castiel knew he had been napping and he should just have left the moment he'd realized this because what if Dean was just a bit disoriented right now? What if he was going to remember in a matter of minutes and start yelling at him to get out?

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not mad at you anymore."

"I'm glad."

Castiel was still unsure but he held Dean's hand back, stroking the soft skin of Dean's wrist with his thumb until they both felt more relaxed in each other's presence.

But then Dean lifted the covers and gestured with his head for Castiel to join him, and Castiel's trepidation arose again.

"Are you sure?" He asked, because he had to.

Dean had to know that if he allowed Castiel in his bed, he was getting held and spooned and most probably kissed until the events that drew them apart were nothing but a fading memory. At least Castiel hoped he knew when he shrugged his coat off and joined Dean under the covers.

The bed was so warm it almost felt like it was burning against Castiel's cold skin.

He wrapped one hand around Dean's waist and tugged until the other man was almost lying atop of him. The lack of wings was a bit disorienting at first, but when Dean let out a little moan that turned into a chuckle and _snuggled_, Castiel forgot the last of his reservations and held onto the hard body pressed against him that seemed to fit against his own like they were meant to be.

Dean smelled of freshly peeled green apples and of something headier, a scent Castiel had to bury his nose in the crook of his neck he couldn't get enough. The first one was probably his shampoo, but the second was only Dean, and there were no words to describe it. It smelled of warmth and comfort and cuddles in the morning and sunsets and rainy days. It smelled amazing, and Castiel whispered so right in Dean's ear, another kind of warmth spreading to his toes when he felt Dean shiver and hum contentedly.

"Dean. I'm sorry for-"

"Don't. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have... _assumed_. And hey, you came back and everything's good, so let's... let's just drop it. Okay?"

Dean turned to look at Castiel with pleading eyes, begging him silently to not start an argument now. Castiel almost apologized again, still feeling like he'd done something wrong, but then he thought better and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Dean's temple. He saw Dean's eyelids flutter before he closed his eyes and let his head drop back in his pillow.

That's when Castiel realized Dean was letting him hug him from behind for the first time since that day, weeks ago. For Dean to present his back so freely, and to let him come so closer after the fright he had had after their misunderstanding the other night, it meant a lot.

It meant he was trusted again. It meant Castiel was the man Dean trusted the most for the time being. That realization made Castiel a little lightheaded, and a lot nervous, but he hid it best as he could and decided to simply enjoy the moment, and the company.

"Do you mind if... if I start humming... um, you know,_ singing?_" Dean asked, and Castiel smiled against his neck.

He hadn't expected Dean of all people to sing, and especially not in a place like this. But if it was the case, it was to be encouraged. People felt the need to sing whenever they were happy, and it meant Dean was getting better because none of his wingless patients ever sang. Their hearts were too heavy, and their minds too burdened with grief and regret to find their voice.

"Go on, I don't mind," Castiel murmured, his voice a bit shaky with emotion, and he hoped Dean didn't notice.

Shortly after, Dean's voice rose in the quiet of the room, soft and throaty, off key for the briefest of moments but always beautiful.

If Dean heard or felt Castiel crying behind him, he didn't say anything.

* * *

_I didn't plan on making this more than just a oneshot, so now I have to slowly set this universe where humans have wings and those who don't are treated with disdain and stuff like that. I know, sounds kinda cliché, but that's fanfiction for ya. Sorry if it's kinda clumsy... I'm trying._

_If you have a hard time picturing people looking down on others for not having wings, imagine how people would react if it was possible to, say, know immediately if a man is castrated or not. Imagine the way that man would feel, and imagine the way he'd be treated only twenty years ago in the streets. I know it's not the best analogy, but wings _are_ important in my society here, and they _do_ define a person and give them a sense of belonging._

_Also smut will be in next chapter, but be patient with me cus I'm not sure when I'll be able to write that seeing that exams are coming soon ;-;_


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